


Hallowed Ground

by Tibbins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, post-season 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 09:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibbins/pseuds/Tibbins
Summary: Continuation of season 13. Castiel goes to confront Michael and bring Dean home. Major Character Death. Destiel.





	1. The Confrontation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knshelton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knshelton/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So it's been a while since I uploaded anything but I've been working on this fic for a long time. It's inspired by a beautiful piece of [fanfart by castielsgal](https://castielsgal.tumblr.com/post/174414062169/%C2%BD-kind-of-destiel-that-should-never-exist-dont). I put a lot of work into it and had to re-write it several times because I wanted to get it right. Sorry for the delay but hopefully it's worth it.
> 
> Major Character Death in this one. And a buttload of angst and violence.  
> Gifted to Knshelton who has been a wonderful supporter of my fics, so I figure they deserve a thank you (Though of course if MCD isn't your thing then I completely understand and you don't have to read it).
> 
> Enjoy ^_^

 

_When blue bleeds black and red burns cold  
Green will rage in shackles of gold._

 

Sam had begged him not to come.

"We might still find something." He'd said, desperately grabbing a book, despite the fact that together they had read the entire library three times over and found nothing but dead ends. The survivors of Apocalypse World had been divided up and sent to different chapter houses across the country, just in case, but it had been months and despite twice-weekly updates, they were still no closer to an answer. Those that remained in Kansas were exhausted and it had somehow fallen to Castiel to remind Sam and Mary in particular that they still needed human things like food and sleep. But although there hadn't been progress, they had felt productive in their own way; keeping busy, making what little plans they could.

The first blow had come when the bunker in southern Michigan had gone quiet. A gas explosion the news called it that evening, six dead. A tragic loss of life.

Bobby had worked his way through almost two entire bottles of Dean's stash of good scotch before Castiel found him and put him to bed. Maggie and Ryan had been in Michigan.

Mary started to lose hope after the second hit in Texas, after days of non-stop working and increasing desperation she locked herself in her room and declared the research 'pointless', snapping at Sam that they were wasting time looking for a cure when they had the archangel blade.

"That monster killed my son!" She screamed through the door, the shout accompanied by the sound of smashing glass. Sam had come to Castiel afterwards, his face bloodless, all lines and shadows and Castiel had held him while he sobbed into his shoulder, feeling the same helplessness clench around his own heart. Their family was buckling, they needed Dean.

After the third bunker stopped responding, Sam called all the rest back, unable to justify leaving them exposed on a distant maybe. Some of them even made it in cars full of books and notes that they added to the pile in the library.

For every friend that did not return, Castiel watched Jack's posture wilt a little more.

"This is all my fault." The boy confessed to him one evening, shoulders hunched, a steaming mug of untouched tea clasped in his hands, the temperature didn't seem to bother him much. His innocent blue eyes were unfocused as he stared into the mug, "I trusted Lucifer and he took my power, and now people are dying because of it. Because of  _me_. You wouldn't have needed Michael if not for me, and he wouldn't have needed Dean if I hadn't-"

Castiel offered the boy empty platitudes, he had nothing else. Dean would have known what to say; the perfect mixture of harsh truth and hope that provided both comfort and inspiration. Castiel hadn't quite learned that trick yet. Also, he couldn't look Jack in the eye and tell him that none of his decisions had made an impact. Jack had had his part, they all had, though Castiel had yet to play his.

 

***

 

It was in the middle of a storm in a long-abandoned barn on the outskirts of Pontiac, Illinois where Castiel prepared the spell. He put the tip of the archangel blade to the meat of his palm and sliced downwards, allowing his blood to fall into the brass bowl on the half-rotted table before healing the cut with a finger of grace. He kept his eyes down as he worked, not looking up at the black paint on the walls, peeling in some places after almost a decade but still mostly intact. Not that they would do much good, they hadn't the first time. Castiel hadn't bothered putting up any sigils of his own, he knew it wouldn't make a difference, there were no safe places anymore.

He sprinkled a few nutgall leaves, some powdered club moss, a vervain flower and a sprig of white hoarhound into the bowl. Once the mixture thickened he added a pinch of yarrow as an insult, and, after a moment's hesitation, a single, delicate root strand of bearsfoot. Just for him.

He crushed the ingredients together methodically; the smell was pleasant, floral with a sharp tang of magic that overpowered the mould of the old barn. He ignored the twitch in his jaw as the root splintered under the pestle; it wasn't a vital ingredient, it wasn't even necessary, the Winchesters' forays into magic had always been strict recipes to be followed but they'd never understood its fluidity and how intention could influence the outcome, especially when it came to summoning an archangel.

Castiel dropped a lit match into the bowl and began to chant, keeping his voice steady over the wind that buffeted the walls of the barn, sending cold gusts whistling through the gaps, causing flakes of paint to tremble and flutter around him like flower petals. The beating rain provided a rhythm for the Enochian as he prepared himself for what was going to happen next. The flames hissed and flared, spitting golden sparks, he felt the heat licking at his face but it was distant, almost like the memory of a sensation.

He watched the fire, the patterns it made, entranced. Fire had a strange, ethereal beauty that he had never had much time to contemplate, or at least, not since he had discovered that things like this were worth contemplating. The flames danced in the bowl, heating the brass to a dangerous orange.  
Fire and destruction were synonyms a lot of the time; to salt and burn bones was to vanquish a restless spirit, to scorch the earth was to render it unliveable. It was violent and raw and untamed, it featured in threats and promises alike, it was the symbol of fury and hatred and revenge, but there was also a purity in it. Fire was passion and feeling and intensity, and yes, that could turn deadly but it could also inspire art, create fireworks, cauterise wounds. Hunters burned their dead; to prevent them becoming ghosts, yes, but also as a mark of respect for the life lived. To stand vigil and watch as the person they had known became ash was a ritual. Ultimately, fire was a tool of change.

And if Castiel understood one thing, it was change.

He'd been waiting for barely a minute when he tasted ozone. Wings rustled behind him, bringing with them an overwhelming sense of power, and the barest flutter of something familiar.

"Castiel."

Castiel turned, forcing himself to look beyond the human face to the grace inside. He tried to focus on it, on this known unknown that was his brother still. Michael was different to be sure, crueller than this world's version had been, more cunning. But he was full of the same self-righteousness, the same conviction. He was not a being to be argued with.

"You look ridiculous." Castiel said, eyeing the flat-cap and the long, coarse coat that was a far cry from the soft flannels and jeans that Dean favoured. Michael merely raised an eyebrow, a silent reminder that antagonising him was not a good idea.

"Why have you summoned me like a common cherub?" The voice was stilted and wrong but it sent a pang through Castiel's gut all the same, it had been so long since he'd heard it.

"Not so common anymore." Castiel replied, refusing to let his stoic exterior slip. That  _voice_.

"Yes," drawled Michael, "I heard about Heaven." His eye caught on the black paint smeared over the walls and he paused, apparently noticing their surroundings for the first time. He tilted his head to the side and looked back at Castiel.

"This place is significant to you," he said. It wasn't a question. "And to him." His gaze turned appraising and the seraph almost broke. Those eyes. They were cold and impassive but they were the same eyes; vibrant green, the crinkles at the edges a physical reminder of the smile that Dean so often pushed down.

"Let him go."

Michael laughed at that, throwing back his head with the force of it. The laugh lacked the warmth of Dean's own but it was too similar not to cause Castiel a painful jolt of recognition. Thunder rumbled outside in perfect symmetry, giving the archangel's mirth power, but no feeling.

Michael's laughter faded with the thunder, though his smirk remained.

"So you called me here to  _beg_. Tell me, Castiel, are you a complete fool or are you just naïve?"

"What was it about my tone that indicated a request?" Castiel growled, catching the hilt of the blade as it fell from his sleeve. He was not above begging for Dean's life but he knew it would be pointless. He was sick of pointless, he was sick of inaction, he was sick of flipping through endless books, watching his family fall apart while he did nothing but worry.

Michael's face twisted.

"You insolent little parasite." He said softly, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you really think that threatening me is going to end well for you?"

"Give him back."

"No."

"Michael-"

"You're acting like a human child." Michael spat at him, "Really, Castiel, this is the best-case scenario. With Lucifer dead and Father gone I am the most powerful being in this world. When I find a way back in I can replenish Heaven. I can do more than stabilise it, I can make it into the perfect, well-oiled machine that was its original purpose, but to do that I need my sword."

"He's not just your sword, Michael." Castiel shot back. A flash of heat and energy lit the barn white for a split second, complimenting his spike of anger and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The darkness it left behind seemed deeper, softened only by the glowing red embers of the remains of the spell.

"Of course he is." Michael waved a dismissive hand. "He let me in and now he's nothing. Just a vessel."

"If that's true," Castiel said, flipping the cool metal in his palm, not aggressively, just enough to remind the both of them that the weapon was in play, "then why haven't you come for us yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know where we are." Castiel continued, "Why bother with the scare tactics? All you've succeeded in doing by killing our friends is piss us off." That was a blatant lie of course, Michael's targeted attacks had taken a sledgehammer to the already crumbling foundation of the bunker, upsetting the very ground they walked on, leaving them stumbling.

Michael chuckled, his tongue darted out to wet his lips and he bared his teeth in a patronising smile.

"A warning." He said, "Nothing more. You're no threat to me, Castiel, despite what you seem to think. I thought it would be instructive for you to see your fate before you seal it. You are still an angel, and there are currently too few of those left."

Castiel smiled, not a true smile, a bare curl of the lip, but it was the most he'd managed in days.

"You're lying."

Michael arched an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Dean always licks his lips before he lies."

Michael huffed impatiently, "I am  _not_  your human, Castiel."

"No, but he is in there." Castiel said, stepping forward, "And he's awake, and he knows me." Castiel deepened his gaze then, shoving past his brother's grace to see the soul inside, subdued by Michael, trembling with the strain as wave after wave of archangel grace crashed into the fragile being, trying to push it further down.

"Hello, Dean." He said. The soul pulsed once, it was dim but it was recognition and it made his chest tighten with longing. He realised that his hand was half-raised, reaching for the soul he wanted more than anything to protect. He let it fall and pulled his sight back, it wasn't safe to look too long. "He's been stopping you returning to Kansas." Castiel said with certainty, pride swelling in his throat.

"Wiping you and that wretched bunker from the face of the earth is not a priority." Michael said quietly, a hint of danger in his voice, "But I will get to you eventually, whether my meat suit wants me to or not."

Castiel repressed a shiver. The thought of Michael laying waste to the bunker, his  _home_ , and the people inside made his blood still with cold fury. He thought of Bobby, wandering listlessly through the bunker, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand, of Sam, collapsing into his own grief, overcome by the pressure of trying to hold everything together, of Jack, only seeing the bad in every choice he had ever made, of Mary, caught in an endless loop of despair and frantic hope.

"You won't touch them." He said. "I won't let you."

"Let me? That's cute."

"Don't test me, Michael. I will protect my family."

Michael laughed softly, his eyes flicking to the archangel blade between them; there was no fear in his eyes, not even a hint of wariness, "Isn't this one your family too?" He asked in Dean's most patronising tone, " _He_  certainly thinks so."

It felt like a fist had just curled around his human heart and squeezed, his jaw snapped tight and he forced back the cocktail of pain and revulsion. Wind whipped at his hair through the broken slats, rattling the loose boards, spraying the two of them with rain. Some of the droplets caught in the still glowing bowl on the table and hissed loudly as they turned to steam.

"You looked through his mind?" Castiel bristled, voice shaking with rage. Another flash of lightning charged the air with static and the thunder wasn't far behind, a low roar of immense power that made his ears pop with the pressure of it. Castiel could taste the electricity, bitter and sharp on his tongue, it tasted like wrath.

"I was curious." Michael shrugged, as though he hadn't performed an act of heinous violation. "I wanted to know what was so special about this one, but why he was chosen to be my sword I can't fathom. He's so  _afraid_. He's afraid that his mother will leave, that his brother will die, that he'll have to watch as I tear everything down. He's afraid of his past, he's afraid of his future and of the fact that he actually  _wants_  one. Honestly it's pathetic."

"Stop." Castiel said, unable to keep silent. The revelation that Dean craved the future he'd thrown away on multiple occasions cut him deeper than any sword. Not least because hearing it from Dean's mouth should have been a joyous moment.

"You wouldn't think that the keeper of  _my_  vessel would be so full of doubt." Michael continued, heedless of Castiel's pain, "It hardly seems compatible, don't you agree?"

"If he's so incompatible, let him go."

Michael's lip twitched, "Nice try." He said, "I suppose I did walk into that one. But no. For whatever reason, this human is my sword. He's mine now. You need to learn to share your toys, Castiel."

"He's  _not_ -"

"He is." Michael cut in harshly. "He's nothing more than a tool; a means to an end that thinks he's funny."

"You-"

"This is getting tiresome." Michael said, turning his back on the seraph. "Do not summon me again. I won't let you live next time."

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to watch Dean fly from him, again, and waited for the flap of wings, for the feeling of power to blink out as Michael vanished, for the pull of Dean's soul to recede. Instead the wind began to scream, iron nails rattling in their settings, the sound of wood hitting wood as insecure boards banged together. Castiel opened his eyes to see the archangel half-crouched, wings in the process of unfurling.

"Strange." Michael said, pausing for a moment, "It seems your human must stay. Something about your spell." He straightened and sniffed at the air, "Bearsfoot?"

"Also known as blood from the shoulder." Castiel said, his eyes darting unconsciously to the shoulder he had branded, their first point of contact, the moment that had changed everything. "It calls to our bond."

"So that's why he's out of his box." Michael said with a frustrated sigh, "He seems determined to watch this. I created him a paradise but apparently he would rather be here. Interesting."

Castiel said nothing, he had been hoping that the herb might have given Dean the strength to revoke his permission, to break out of whatever world Michael had locked him in and cast the intruder out. But Michael was an archangel and Dean was his holy weapon. There was a connection there that no sliver of root could break. He'd known it, it had been nothing more than a wild hope, but the fact that it was compelling Dean to stay meant that he was fighting, as Cas had known he would. Michael dismissed his wings with an uncomfortable shrug of the shoulders and levelled his eyes at Castiel.

"Do you think he will enjoy watching me tear out your grace to crush it in my hands? Do you think he would want to  _feel_  it? I can make that happen. And then I can peel the muscle from your bones and he will feel that too. Do you think he will be cowed enough to stay quiet if he watches while his hands kill his angel pet? If I throw his consciousness back into the Hell you pulled him from, back into the clutches of that demon he's so scared of… Alastair. Would he be quiet then, with nothing but the sound of your screams in his head?"

"Dean?" Castiel said with a proud tilt to his chin, though the thought of Dean having to go through that made his insides twist. "Never."

"We can test that theory." Michael said. Suddenly he was right in front of Castiel, swinging upwards with his blade. Castiel only just jumped back in time, the weapon tearing his shirt. He countered with his own blow, which Michael blocked effortlessly, and they began to circle each other, calculating, until the tension broke and Castiel ran forwards with a war cry.

Castiel was a warrior of God; he had been in command of a very prestigious garrison and had many millennia of experience in battle. He had also gained a lot of knowledge from his time on Earth, fighting against different creatures the human way had taught him many tricks that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He had confidence in his fighting ability and he knew that he was quicker on his feet than Michael was, he'd always been fast.

But while Castiel had commanded a few dozen angels, Michael had led them all. Michael was God's right hand, made for war, made to fight, and this version was especially well-practiced from Apocalypse World. His weapon was the vessel he inhabited, his power was ten times that of a seraph and any blade he picked up became an extension of himself. Castiel used the techniques he had learned with finesse but Michael embodied them. Castiel had speed but Michael's instincts were precise and rarely miscalculated.

They clashed again and again while the storm raged outside and around them, thunder and lightning punctuating their blows and parrys, slats from the roof and walls were torn from their fittings, Castiel's coat whipped around him. Michael flicked his fingers and a blast of power knocked him backwards into the table, shattering two of the legs and sending the brass bowl flying, hissing where it landed on the damp ground, erupting in a puff of steam. Breathing heavily, Castiel pushed himself to his feet, spitting the sour copper of blood onto the already filthy floor. Rain streaked both their faces, cold and insistent, Castiel shook out his arm, which had received a small gash but didn't bother healing it. Michael, of course, was unruffled.

"Give it up, Castiel. We both know you won't win this fight."

"I will stop you." Castiel said. Not his finest of retorts perhaps but Michael was right, the archangel was the far superior warrior.

"Even if you could best me, stopping me means killing him." Michael said with an almost pitying look. "And you can't."

"I will protect my family." Castiel said again, but his voice shook, betraying his conviction. Michael sneered.

"You don't  _have_  a family, Castiel. You turned your back on your family when you chose these mud monkeys but you've never really belonged with them either, have you? You've always been too different, too alien, to really be one of them. Not powerful enough to be useful, not weak enough to belong. This one cares for you, but he cares for you differently than he does everyone else, even to him you're something separate, something he doesn't understand and you, poor fool," Michael said with a derisive shake of his head, "you actually believe that you  _chose_  this."

It hurt too much to think about the implications of Michael's words, but they stuck to him like barbs all the same.

"Of course I chose it." He said warily, shifting his grip on the blade.

"No, you didn't. You don't get to make choices. You're just playing your part. You might have managed to help delay it but you couldn't stop it. True vessels will always accept their fate."

"No. Fate can be diverted, we proved that."

"You mean  _they_  proved it." Michael said with a heavy look at the seraph, "The Winchesters proved it.  _Humans_  are the ones with free will, Castiel. Not angels, not you."

"You're wrong."

"Even now, you're just fulfilling your role. All sense dictates that you should join me, cast aside your human attachment and wait for the Earth to be clean again but you can't, because it's God's will that you remain stubborn. Just as it was His will that you fell."

"I didn't fall for God!" Castiel cried, bristling at the insult, "I fell for _them_ , I fell for  _him_!"

Another weak pulse filtered through Michael's grace, so faint that Castiel almost thought he'd hoped it into being, but there was no mistaking when something flickered in those green eyes before Michael wrestled it down again, regaining his unflappable mask.

"But  _why_?" Michael said softly, the way a teacher would talk to an unruly pupil, as though he already had the answer and was waiting for Castiel to catch up. "Why else would an angel fall? Humans have nothing to offer the likes of us. All they do is corrupt, which, as I understand it, happened to you the second you forged that bond you seem so proud of; the one you only created because you were ordered to, the one that set you irreversibly onto this course of action. Any decision that you think you made wasn't real."

"My decisions matter." Cas spat. It was a weak argument but he believed it, believed it with every fibre of his being, he  _had_  to, the alternative would destroy him, "I  _have_  made a difference. And not all of it was good, and I wasn't always right but those mistakes are my own and they belong to me, and so do my choices."

"Your choices are illusions."

"How convenient for you that your belief absolves you of blame!" Castiel snapped, "No matter that the blood of a whole planet is on your hands and that you're planning to destroy another. Tell me, Michael, how is that God's will when He created us specifically to _protect_  humanity? How peaceful it must be that you don't feel the need to justify your actions because you can blame it all on Father and reap the reward."

"The mind of God is a fickle thing." Michael said bitterly. "It's not my place to question it."

"Of course not." Castiel said derisively, "Because that would involve you admitting that you're afraid."

"Afraid?" Michael scoffed, "Of you?"

"No. Look around, Michael. Look at what you did to your own world, the fate that you plan for this one. And do you know why you're so determined to destroy it all? Because you have  _nothing_  else to do. Because your purpose since Lucifer fell has been preparing for the apocalypse. But you never planned what you would do afterwards, did you? It never crossed your mind that after all of the accolades and the pride you would still have to go on with the knowledge that you killed your brother because your Father told you to. And then you get a second chance and you come here, and you get to kill Lucifer all over again and you have your purpose back and now you have your sword. But you won, again, and now you're floundering, again, because you're afraid that there is nothing else to you. So you want to tear it all down so there will be no one left to watch you grieve."

The barn fell silent for few seconds, deathly silent, even the storm outside seemed muffled, the wind no longer making so much as a rustle, but the air was spiked with power, sharp and sticky, it positively leaked from the archangel before him. Michael tilted his head and a small smile crept up his face.

"Interesting theory." He said lightly, in the tone that Dean reserved for a monster that he felt was barely worth his time. "Here's my rebuttal."

His hand curled smoothly and Castiel felt his knees break. The storm was back in full force as he fell with a cry of shock and pain that was swallowed up by the thunder, stumbling before his grace had the chance to repair the damage. By that time Michael had hold of the lapels of his trenchcoat, his face so close, twisted with malice that didn't belong, eyes that were so cold their gaze burned but Castiel couldn't look away, there was something else in them, a spark, a fleck of gold in those beautiful irises that almost seemed to dance. It ripped at something in him, that light shouldn't be caged.

"Can you see him in there?" Michael asked him, his voice as cold as the rain that fell freely around them. Half the roof of the barn was gone now, lightning struck the ground not three feet away, leaving behind the smell of charred earth and a small mass of fulgurite, flecks of black paint churned around them before they were speared to the ground by raindrops as hard as bullets, as hard as the fist that collided with the side of his face, sending him sprawling. "I think you can. He certainly sees you." A kick this time and he flew backwards, slamming into the flimsy wall of the barn; he stayed there, suspended while pain bloomed in his chest, one of his eyes already swelling shut, his grace barely able to touch the power loaded in an archangel's blow, particularly an archangel in their true vessel, Michael with his sword. He stepped towards Castiel, predatory, heedless of the debris spinning through the air, their eyes were locked, that tiny spark fighting with all of its strength.

"Dean-"

Michael's hand pressed against his throat and he cut off with a choked gasp. He might not need to breathe but feeling his windpipe collapse under the vise-like grip was unpleasant to say the least. His jaw worked uselessly and he felt blood well in the back of his throat. Bubbling up to spill coppery and thick out of his mouth.

"He's positively  _clawing_  at me." Michael smirked, "It tickles. Got quite the impressive array of insults too. And threats." He cocked his head suddenly, as though listening, "Now  _that_  one sounds fun. Let's try it out, shall we?"

The hand not pinning Castiel to the wall by his throat found its way to his stomach. The touch was light, the fingertips calloused where they brushed patches of skin through his torn shirt, he was so close Castiel could smell him, beneath the ozone and bleached scent of Michael there was the smell of old leather and beer, salt and iron and engine oil and  _Dean_. It was so strong that Castiel felt his eyes begin to prickle with the feelings they evoked. The memories of long drives, quiet smiles, heated arguments, frustrated forgiveness. Conversations exchanged with a glance, trust and apologies, laughter and regret and understanding; clashing and holding and orbiting each other like two magnets spinning slightly out of sync. Under the weight of all that, the touch of those fingers shouldn't feel so wrong. It sent conflicting emotions firing across his synapses until Michael's hand pressed in and those emotions were blotted out by the pain. He yelled, trying to twist away from the intrusion, feeling the blood pour from the new opening as Michael callously tore his way in.

"Did he never learn your full name?" asked Michael, mocking, wrist deep in Castiel's internal organs. "Oh, he does  _not_ like this." He continued, grabbing hold of what felt like Castiel's small intestine and pulling. "He really doesn't like the feeling of your blood on his hands. He's screaming now. Can you  _see_  it?"

Castiel forced his eyes to meet the green. The light in them was agitated, seeming to throw itself again and again against whatever barrier kept it from taking control.

_Always fighting_ , he thought,  _so strong._

His lips pulled up into a small smile even as Michael spilled his guts onto the soiled ground. "It's alright, Dean." He whispered, reaching a hand up to rest it against Michael's cheek, his thumb brushing over the freckles that softened the hard lines, adding a child-like quality to the face of the man who had been forced to grow up too fast. "It's going to be alright."

"If you truly believe that, you're delusional." Michael said, swatting away Castiel's grace as it pooled around the wound, staving off the healing just enough for the pain to remain precedent. Michael pushed in a little deeper and Castiel dropped his hand with a weak cry. He focused on that speck of gold and could almost  _see_  him. He watched as Dean screamed, beating his fists bloody on a wall of his own imagining, in a box in his own mind, seeing everything,  _feeling_  everything that Michael used his body for.

"You know," Michael said, fingers grasping inside his torso for something else to rip from him, "I kind of get it, the appeal of getting your hands dirty. I could pull out your grace and torture  _that_ , but there's something satisfying about getting all up in your meat. This vessel is no longer just a vessel to you, is it? You've sunken in, fused yourself to it so hurting your suit actually hurts you almost as much as it would a human. You really have fallen low."

"It was worth it." Castiel choked out, "All of it. It was worth it, Dean."

"Oh, I wish you could hear him right now, Castiel." Michael muttered, voice soft, his mouth turned up in a beautiful smile that shouldn't be there, eyes dancing with amusement, and that one, gold fleck. "He's  _begging_."

Castiel's heart twisted, or it was being twisted, it was difficult to separate. He watched as Dean sank down to his knees, shoulders heaving with emotion, head dropping in defeat as tears spilled onto the floor that wasn't.

"This was a good suggestion of his." Michael mused, clenching his fist around something and squeezing until Castiel felt the pop as it burst, breaking his focus on Dean's soul. "He's been nothing but irritating since he let me in, this feels like a fitting way to retaliate. He's going to experience killing you, Castiel. Every slow second of it. And then, I'm going to return to Kansas."

"No." Castiel growled, making a half-hearted swipe with the blade still held loosely in his hand.

Michael stepped back easily, his hand slowly pulling out of Castiel's stomach with a wet sucking sound. The power holding him up released and Castiel dropped to the floor, wet with his own blood and the rain that was still falling, his ears ringing with the screaming wind and Michael's words, the taste of pennies in his mouth.

"What a broken thing you are." Michael said, holding his hand out in the downpour, watching with interest as the blood that caked his wrist and the sleeve of his shirt was washed away. "Did you really think you could  _talk_  him into casting me out? Please. He's been trying that for  _weeks_. I'm not from this world. I'm not bound to comply to the will of the host beyond the initial 'yes'. It's far more efficient."

Castiel's blood – what little he still had left – turned cold.

"No." He repeated, as though saying it would make it feel less as though he was back in the Empty, re-living every moment he had ever failed in rapid succession. "No, that's not right."

Then Michael had hold of his coat again, pulling him up by the lapels so that his lips were next to Castiel's ear.

"Right," He snarled, "is what I make it."

Castiel's grace churned inside him, bunching up the skin of his belly in a quick heal. Replenishing the lost organs would take longer but Castiel didn't need them, though their absence was far more painful and disorientating than he would have expected. He shifted his legs under him so that when Michael dropped him again he would remain standing, if not steady. Michael raised an eyebrow, looking half-amused, half-pitying.

"I'm not going to let him go." He said, perfectly calm.

It was that more than anything that struck home. That calm voice, his entire being radiating control. Castiel's grip on the blade in his hand went lax, a pit yawning open inside him. This had been his plan: confront Michael, get Dean back. This had been his  _only_  plan. He couldn't go back to hiding in the bunker, waiting around for an answer to fall into his lap. He had come here to finish something. He had come here because he hadn't known what else to do. He had come here because he missed Dean.

"Please." He said through tight teeth. It was all he had left, the last act of a desperate man. "Michael, please. I'm asking you, as your brother, let him go. Let him come  _home_. He's done enough."

"You're not my brother." Michael said coldly, and the words stung more than they should have. "You  _killed_  my brother Castiel, just when he'd finally learned his place, too."

Castiel pressed his lips together, he remembered the flayed thing that was his alternate self's grace, almost unrecognisable as him, nothing left but the creature Naomi had tried to turn him into; killing him had been a mercy.

"Please."

"You're pathetic, you know that? He's a  _human_ , Castiel. He is so far beneath you and yet you look at him with such  _devotion_. He really trained you well."

"It's not devotion," Castiel said quietly, "it's love. I love him, Michael. Please,  _please_  don't make him do this."

Michael scoffed, even as a stronger wave of light shimmered from Dean's soul, even as that spark glowed a little brighter in Michael's eye. Michael straightened his posture, forcing Dean back down. "This has to be done." He said, his voice empty, "For what it's worth, your…  _love_ ," The word flicked from his tongue like something filthy, "Isn't. What you feel is merely a fabrication of forced connection. You call it love because that's the only word the bond translates into that you can stomach. Obsession would be more accurate, or shackle."

Castiel shook his head, sending shining beads of water flying from his hair, which was plastered to his scalp, "Let me show you." he said, reaching desperately for Michael's hand. "I can show you. Look into my memories, see him the way I do. He's  _good_ , Michael, better than me, better than any angel. Don't take that away. This world needs him.  _I_  need him."

Michael jerked his hand away with a look of disgust.

"It makes no difference." He said. "That bunker houses a dangerous amount of knowledge. It needs to go, along with all those who would protect it. And  _Dean_ ," Michael spat out the name like a bad taste, "will stop fighting me when he no longer has anything to fight for." He sighed then, apparently the expression on Castiel's face was pitiful. "I am not without mercy. Once this task is done, I will re-fashion his paradise and he can stay there. I will do that out of respect for his work against Lucifer."

Castiel thought of Dean on a sandy beach, or driving his car down an endless road, or sitting on a bench in a lush park, or drinking a beer in his own room in the bunker. Any number of situations that he knew Dean would enjoy. But none of them were right.

"No. You can't make Dean a paradise." He said, his voice wavering, small and broken. "He won't believe it. It doesn't matter how you decorate his cage, Dean can't be happy unless he's free."

"Well." Michael said impassively, summoning his blade again. "That's a shame." His hand shot up and Castiel tried to brace himself for the impact. Grace met grace as Michael's barrelled into his with the force of a meteor, Castiel slid back several feet, his shoes digging into the rotten planks lining the floor and he grunted under the power of it even as Michael watched coolly, his posture upright but relaxed. Castiel was using all of his energy just not getting crushed.

Then the pressure withdrew and Castiel almost toppled forwards, catching himself just in time. He looked up at Michael, hopeful, but those eyes were still cold. Even that gold spark seemed dimmer now, as though Dean had stopped fighting. Castiel risked a glimpse at his friend's soul and what he saw wrenched at his heart; a tight ball of flickering light, wreathed in shadows of hopelessness and despair. It soaked Castiel through more thoroughly than the rain and added a bone-deep chill that the wind couldn't manage.

There was no way out. Michael couldn't be evicted and he wouldn't leave. He would make Dean watch the slaughter of his family and the destruction of the home he had grown to depend on, and then he would stick Dean in a box for the rest of eternity and leave him to shatter alone. No. He couldn't let that happen. He  _wouldn't_ let that happen. Not to Dean.

Castiel drew himself up, the air crackling with grace and agonising determination and, even though it went against every instinct he had, he launched himself at Michael.

Michael swept his strike aside and returned the attack; with a swipe of his hand, ribbons fell from Castiel's grace and he drew back with a gasp, another flick of the wrist and Michael struck deep into the remains of his wings, shaking loose several feathers and making Castiel cry out in raw agony. It was a different kind of pain to that of his vessel, more intense, less easy to ignore. Castiel couldn't even try to return the favour, his grace was depleted and now wounded, it was barely keeping on top of the most grievous injuries Michael was dishing out, his hits were hard and exact, unpredictable too, slicing through to strike at his grace or his vessel with seamless dexterity. Castiel was weakening fast, he wasn't practised at this kind of fighting; he'd never been trained to battle archangels, all of his knowledge on the subject he'd learned the human way. Dean's way.

Resolve flared within him and he countered Michael's next attack with a blow that shook the earth around them, cracking the foundations and making the walls wobble precariously, like the cardboard backdrop of a play that threatened to reveal the stark reality, rudely bursting the bubble of hope for those fools who had let themselves believe in the world they so desperately wanted. Tears stung his eyes as he threw himself into the fight. Michael grunted in surprise when Castiel landed a deep gash on the archangel's bicep, he stared at the wound for a half-second before shaking it out, eyebrows dropping into a glare.

Castiel's jaw clenched as droplets of Dean's blood joined the rainfall, the image hitting him harder than Michael ever could. His decision sat stone-heavy in his ribcage. He forced himself to think of Mary's wry intelligence, of Bobby's gruff concern, of Jack's determination to better himself and the way Sam could warm a room with his smile. He thought of the family waiting on him and he thought of what Michael would do to them if he lost. He couldn't let that happen. He'd learned more from the human way than how to fight, he'd learned  _why_.

Michael stalked forward and, with a twitch of his fingers, another chunk of grace was rent from Castiel. He discarded the precious essence, not even turning to watch it sear an ashy mark where it melted into the sodden wood, all humour gone from his expression.

"Enough!" He said loudly, eyes flashing icy. Exasperation clung to his every movement, shocking free water that had sunk into the fabric of his clothes. "This doesn't end your way."

"I know." Castiel gritted out, voice cracking.

This was going to end Dean's way; bloody, with the best of intentions and only a fool's hope.

He dashed forward, the blade dancing in his fingertips, Michael side-stepped and caught his charge on the shoulder, glancing, but enough to further build his rage, there were no more pulled punches, no more hesitation. Castiel fought to kill.

So when he ducked under Michael's arm and aimed the blade between the third and fourth rib he fully expected Michael to block him, to throw his hand aside, send him back to the Empty with a blinding flash and the truth of failure burning his retinas.

But Michael didn't block him, his hand stalled mid-arc for the span of a blink and the blade slid home, notching the bone of those carved ribs, piercing muscle and cartilage before sinking into the heart. Castiel felt the vibration of a half-beat as the organ squeezed around the blade, then it touched grace and Michael's eyes widened, his jaw went slack, as though he couldn't quite believe it. Something shifted and the green bled soft and afraid.

"Cas?"

Castiel made a sound in the back of his throat like a choked whimper; he thought of all of the things he wanted to say, the things that had never  _needed_  to be said aloud, the words exchanged with every touch, every meeting of their eyes, but before he could even try to voice them, Dean's head snapped back, dying grace exploding from his eyes against the flow of the rain. Lightning crashed around them, the wind screamed alongside him; the scream resonated with Castiel's grace, transcending Dean's human voice, straining his vocal chords like a guitar string about to snap.

Castiel tasted salt on his lips and his hand curled around the back of Dean's neck, slipping through the fine hair even as the other clutched the hilt of the blade in his chest. He didn't blink, didn't look away, despite the burn of archangel grace. Dean curled into him around the silver in his heart, scream lowering to a sob, body convulsing as Michael thrashed for life inside him, clawing at his host. Castiel caught him as his legs gave out, laying him down onto the drowning planks gently, brushing away the hair gummed to his forehead by the rain. Dean arced up from the floor, face contorted in pain. Finally, with a blast of power that knocked Castiel backwards and shattered the barn around them to splinters, Dean thumped back to the floor and lay still, steam rising from the black welts scorched into the uneven planks.

Everything fell silent, the clouds hung metallic and waterlogged over them but the rain was barely a patter now. The crackle of electricity in the air vanished and the thunder along with it.

Castiel barely noticed, he scrambled over to the body lying between the ruins of Michael's wings.

"Dean?" He whispered raggedly. His ears rang with the echoes of Michael's true voice but he felt more than heard the liquid pulse of Dean's heart, still fluttering stubbornly around the blade lodged in his chest. Hope flickered in his stomach and he rallied his grace, pulling out the blade as gingerly as he could and tossing it aside with a metallic clang, pressing both of his hands to the wound hard, he heard a laboured gasp come from Dean, squeezed his eyes shut, focused his strength and he poured it, every bit, into the man he loved.

Only a thin trickle bled through Castiel's fingers and it was then that he realised how badly damaged his grace was.

"No." He said, staring at his red-sodden hands. He tried to push his grace into them but nothing happened, his grace was the tiniest of dust motes whirling inside of him, barely enough to make him angel, not enough to save Dean. "No!"

He'd known this window would be slim if it opened at all; a few, precious moments between the death of the divine being and the death of the human, if he had been any other angel, if he'd even been slightly stronger at the start of this fight he might have had enough grace to be able to have done something. As it was, he was completely useless.

Dean coughed suddenly, blood bubbling from his mouth.

"Dean?"

Dean made a weak, spluttering noise that might have been his name. Immediately, Castiel's hands returned to Dean's chest.  _Keep pressure on it_. Castiel had heard that enough times when the Winchesters dealt with injuries he couldn't, or they wouldn't let him, heal that it felt almost as ingrained in him as the instinct to reach for his grace.

"The blade pierced the left ventricle, I- I don't know what to do."

Dean groaned as Castiel pressed on the wound, and his eyes popped open, wide and green and beautiful; apparently Castiel's feeble amount of grace had succeeded in rousing Dean to consciousness but nothing more than that. He shouldn't have removed the blade, he'd probably done even more damage, but he'd been so  _sure_ he'd be able to- he could feel the torn muscle and sluggish blood under his palms.  _So not only did you kill him but you managed to prolong his suffering. You are worse than useless, Castiel._

He felt something hot drip onto the back of his hand and his eyes flicked to the offending droplet, he stared at it, half-angry, half-amazed.

"Don't." Dean rasped.

Castiel almost laughed.

"Don't what? Don't cry for you?" He asked bitterly, "I think we're past the 'no chick-flick moments' ideology, don't you?"

"Don't hurt him anymore."

Castiel felt as though he were the one who'd been stabbed in the heart, the cold slide of pain lancing through his chest as he met Dean's eyes, looked at them properly, they were wild and glassy, unfocused, darting around Castiel's face and then away as if he were afraid to look, his gaze landed on his bloodied shirt and twisted, it was such a private expression that it dawned on Castiel that Dean didn't think he could see him. He'd been a vessel for too long.

"You made him bleed, you bastard." He whimpered, "I'll kill you for that, I'll - no, no, I'm sorry, don't go after Sammy, I'm  _sorry_ , don't-"

Castiel hushed him softly, gathering the man into his arms as gently as he could, shifting so that Dean could lay against his chest, one hand pressing uselessly over the wound, the other stroking through his hair, Dean chased the touch, twitching, agitated and afraid.

"It's alright, Dean." He said with a cracked sob. "Sam's safe, they're all safe. Michael's gone. It's alright."

"No, stop, please don't hurt Sammy." Dean begged.

"Shhhh, it's okay, it's going to be okay." He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. His vision was blurred with tears as he held Dean close, a scenario that he had imagined so many times, but not like this, never like this.

"Cas?"

"I'm here, Dean. I'm not gonna leave you, I promise. You're not alone."

"You stay away from him you son of a bitch. Don't you go near him or I swear-"

"-it's alright. I've got you."

"Please, please don't."

"I'm sorry." Castiel whispered. "I love you."

Dean moaned in pain and muttered something unintelligible. His eyes were still open, staring up into the empty space around Castiel before flitting around his features as though checking him for injuries, open panic on his face. Castiel was pretty sure that Dean hadn't heard a word he had said since Michael died, perhaps that exposure to the archangel's real voice had damaged his hearing. He dropped his head to press a kiss to Dean's clammy forehead, hoping it would translate. When he pulled back Dean just stared at him, a tear leaking from his eye. Castiel thumbed it away with a wobbly smile.

"I love you." He said again, mouthing the words very carefully.

"Don't hurt Cas." Dean whimpered, "Please, Michael, don't. I'll be good, I won't fight anymore, I promise, please."

Castiel tightened his grip on the man in his arms, hot tears mingling with the rain on his face as he felt himself shatter a little more with each broken plea. He was supposed to be Dean's guardian, supposed to protect him, but he couldn't even offer him comfort. After a few moments of listening to Dean's laboured gasps, Castiel began to hum, the first strains of Fade to Black rumbled in his throat, partially because it had been on the radio during the drive here, partially because he remembered Dean telling him once after a particularly strained hunt that Metallica calmed him down. Castiel remembered because Dean had switched the music from Led Zeppelin and he'd been curious about the change.

It was scratchy and out of time but Dean settled almost instantly, leaning back into him with a wheezing sigh; letting his eyes flutter shut, turning his ear to Castiel's chest, apparently chasing the vibrations. Castiel kept humming, stroking Dean's hair and tracing the freckles scattered on his cheeks, feeling Dean's heartbeat slow under his red-stained fingertips, hearing his breathing stutter and fade. Castiel's own breath hitched when the pull of Dean's soul vanished, like a bead torn from a tapestry, leaving a hole with ragged edges and fraying threads.

 

He kept humming long after Dean was dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think?  
> All feedback is cherished and filed carefully away for future reference.  
> I'll post the second chapter soon.
> 
> If you want a little extra info about the spell Cas used and the particular herbs mentioned I found [this website](http://wiccanmoonsong.blogspot.com/2012/10/herbs-and-their-witchy-names.html), which is where I got the 'blood from the shoulder' thing from, as well as a few extra bits. 
> 
> And if you want to chat, feel free to drop by [my tumblr](https://tibbinswrites.tumblr.com/). I always love to hear from you.  
> Love Tibbins xx


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the second chapter I promised. Originally I had it all as one long piece but I thought that splitting it would work better. Also, a huge, massive, ginormous thank you to knshelton who is just so truly kind and wonderful.
> 
> Enjoy ^_^

 

"Cas?"

Castiel swallowed hard. It had taken him four tries to dial Sam's number, the screen had cracked during the fight and the blood on his fingers made it so that the touch didn't register. He'd had to wipe them on his slacks.

"Did you find him?"

"I did."

"And?" Sam's voice was strained to snapping.

Castiel's jaw worked but the words wouldn't come out. He couldn't say them; he was cradling Dean's cold body in his lap but his heart rebelled against him.  _No!_ It screamed,  _it's not real, there's another way, you can get him back!_ But even though Castiel's grace was mostly replenished now, no amount of healing helped. He'd lost the ability to resurrect somewhere along the way and without that to flip the switch, he was just pouring grace into the void.

"Cas! Talk to me, what happened?"

The sharp tone shook loose more tears from him and then he made the mistake of looking down. Dean's eyes were closed, his usually sun-kissed skin was pale. Castiel couldn't even pretend he was sleeping, Dean was never so still.

 _He's an angry sleeper,_  Castiel had told Jack sagely, what felt like a lifetime ago,  _like a bear._ He'd been unable to keep the fondness from his voice, still reeling from his resurrection, meeting Jack, seeing Dean so giddy with childish joy.

He tried to form words around the lump in his throat but only a sob came out.

Apparently it was enough.

"Oh God." Said Sam. Then there was a loud clatter and the more distant sound of Sam noisily vomiting.

"What?!" Came a feminine voice, apparently Mary had scrambled for the phone, "Is Dean alright? Is he there with you?"

"He-" Castiel took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. He didn't have the same understanding with Mary that he did with Sam, He had to say the words. "He's dead, Mary."

There was a tight pause.

"So go get him back."

Castiel blinked in confusion, his heart rejoiced at the words but they pulled painfully at what he  _knew_.

"I can't."

"Get off your ass, get to Heaven, and bring him home." Mary said, voice shaking with rage.

"Mary," he croaked, "Heaven's locked. Not even  _Michael_  could-"

"I DON'T CARE!" Mary screamed, and Castiel flinched, "Figure it out, you  _useless_ , feathered  _murderer_!"

"Mom." Sam cut in weakly. "That's enough. It's not Cas' fault."

"I had to." Castiel said. It was his only defence and he hated himself for using it. Mary was right, he didn't deserve defending, but the instinct to fight was apparently too ingrained in him now. "Michael wouldn't let him go and he wasn't bound by consent the way he should've been. Dean- Dean gave me the opening and I-"

He floundered then, the words refusing to form on his tongue.

"Not his fault?" Mary spat with distaste, "He _stabbed_  your brother with an archangel blade and you say it's not his  _fault_?"

"Stop!" Sam's voice teetered on the edge of cracking. "I can't-" Castiel could hear the way his breathing changed, the way he pushed his grief to one side to deal with later, the way a leader did when their group had taken a hit, and despite everything, Castiel was proud. He thought of the way Sam had stepped into the role of leader in the past few months as though he'd always belonged there, despite rarely getting the chance to try.

"Where are you?" He asked.

"Pontiac, Illinois." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, knowing that there was no point in reminding Sam that he had come here in a truck. "It's a barn, or… it  _was_  a barn." It was nothing more than rubble now; splinters, an overturned brass bowl, the skeleton of an archangel's wings and far too many memories.

"Castiel." Jack's voice, tentative and gentle. "Are  _you_  alright?"

Mary scoffed in the background.

"I'm-" Castiel said, looking around at the barren field the barn had been in as though for inspiration, decorated only by the rust-brown truck he had driven here. The earth here was changed now, he could feel it, though blessed or cursed he couldn't tell, nor could he decide which he would prefer. "My body is no longer injured." He said. It was stilted and formal but it was the best he could manage while still being honest.

"Oh." Jack said, wavering, then, "I'm sorry. That's what I say, right? I say I'm sorry?" There was a desperate note there too, from a boy who needed reassurance and guidance. Castiel was in no position to offer either.

"I'm sorry too." Was all he said.

 

***

 

He heard the familiar rumble of the engine before the sleek black car came into view. Castiel stood waiting, as he had been for hours, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He'd used his grace to remove the blood but it made little difference, he still didn't feel clean. The impala rolled to a stop and with the usual creak of the driver-side door, Sam got out, his cheeks hollow and prickled with several days of stubble, his hazel eyes bright with anguish and determination, as though he'd pushed all of his limits to get here as quickly as he could. Castiel had no doubt that that was the case. They met in a hug without saying a word, trying to soak up comfort from the other that neither could give, united in their pain.

"Where is he?" Sam asked when they pulled apart.

Castiel gestured to a lump of tan, Dean's legs stuck out the bottom. It was almost absurdly comic, a final indignity that Castiel couldn't stomach. But he had no sheet and his coat was a fitting shroud. He had carried Dean away from Michael's wings at least.

He hung back as Sam approached the body, peeled the coat away and collapsed back into the five-year-old boy who thought his big brother was invincible. He hung his head and turned away, this grief wasn't his to witness.

It was a while later when Sam covered Dean back up, slid his arms under his brother's body and stood. He staggered under the weight but Castiel didn't offer to help. Instead he opened the door to the backseat of the impala and waited for Sam to place Dean inside. He watched those broad shoulders shake with sobs, saw the way he held on just a little longer than was truly necessary, saw him draw back, eyes red and haunted, felt his weight as he landed a hand on his shoulder and left it there, pressing into something solid and alive while he closed his eyes and gathered himself. Finally, he nodded and removed his hand, tugging at the driver-side handle. Castiel skirted around the hood of the car, brushing the shiny paint with his fingertips before folding himself into the leather. The scent alone was enough to punch another maelstrom of grief through him. He pressed his lips together and held it in, kept his eyes dry. His tears had been for Dean and Dean alone.

Sam glanced at the body in the rear-view once more before dropping his eyes and turning the key in the ignition. The car gave a gentle whine and spluttered back to silence. Sam cursed and tried again, once more, the engine coughed out a moan but didn't rev into the beautiful roar that was her trademark. Castiel glanced at Sam, then twisted in his seat to look in the back. It was almost as though the car felt the extra weight, as though she too were mourning.

"Dammit!" Sam yelled, too loudly in the closed space, slapping his hands down onto the steering wheel in frustration. Then he bent forward to rest his head on the leather-coated metal with a deep sigh, "Come on girl," he muttered, so quietly that Castiel was sure he wasn't supposed to hear, "let's take him home. One last time, okay?"

He patted the dash and tried again, turning the key over. With a gurgle, the engine bloomed into glorious noise. Sam laughed through his tears, a pained flash of white teeth and a huffed exhale. As the car wheeled into a smooth spin, Castiel rested his head against the window and took in the sight of where the barn had been. The place he had begun to fall, and the place where he hit the ground.

 

***

 

After about three hours of heavy silence, Castiel pulled something out of his trouser pocket and began to turn it over nervously in his fingers. Sam glanced over at the movement and his expression sank into soft understanding.

"I wondered where that went." He said with a small smile. "Put it in."

Castiel slipped the tape into the deck and pressed the button. The first notes of Ramble On drifted dusty from the speakers. Sam nodded along, slightly out of time.

"I must've been about nine or ten when he made this." Sam said, pulling his eyes back to the road but seeming to see beyond it. "His birthday had just been and Dad had given him a blank cassette tape, told him to make it count and if it was good, he'd add it to the box. Asshole never did give Dean anything he didn't make him work for." He added bitterly.

"But Dean lit up, you know the way he does when he's got something, something that's just for him, because he wanted it. He's got maybe two or three things like that in the world. And one of them's a freaking slinky."

Castiel's lips tugged upwards involuntarily as he remembered once walking into the war room to find Dean lying on his stomach at the top of the stairs, a neon-rainbow contraption slowly bouncing its way down.

 

***

 

_He looked up when Cas walked in, eyes shining with impish joy, his mouth open wide in a toothy smile that pulled at his cheeks, his freckles seeming to dance in the yellow-tinted light. Sam was out on a supply run and Dean had probably been under the impression that Cas had gone too, considering the immediate pink flush that shot up his neck to stain his ears._

" _What are you doing?" Cas asked, tilting his head, a half-smile already on his face from that rare glimpse of Dean's unguarded expression, even as the hunter worked to pull it back. The plastic spiral landed at his feet and he picked it up curiously. "What is this?"_

" _Wha- Have you never seen a slinky before?"_

_Cas shook his head, bemused. He examined the toy, pulling at one end and letting it flop down to tap the ground._

" _What does it do?"_

" _Are you kidding me? What doesn't it do?" Dean said, incredulous, "Bring it up, I'll show you."_

_Cas did as he was told and settled himself down next to Dean, who showed him how to place the slinky on the top step._

" _You ready?"_

" _For what?"_

" _Just watch."_

_With a flick of his wrist, Dean sent the toy flipping end over end in a display of colour and basic physics. Cas raised an eyebrow, considering all of the things he had seen, this was less than impressive; until he glanced over and saw the way it held Dean rapt as it tumbled down the stairs. When it hit the bottom he turned to look at Cas, face bright and open, so eager to share this simple pleasure with someone he cared for._

" _Huh?" He said, clearly waiting for Cas' reaction._

" _It's fascinating." Cas replied warmly. "I particularly like the part where it does the same thing eighteen times."_

" _Pffft." Dean said, flapping a hand and levering himself up. "You're no fun."_

 

***

 

"Anyway," Sam said, running a hand through his hair and yanking Castiel roughly back into the present, the one where that smile was just a memory and not something to hope for. "Dean spent  _weeks_  planning it out. He wrote lists on whatever scrap paper he could get his hands on, thought about doing a bunch of different bands. At first he was gonna make it for Dad, put all of his favourite songs on one tape, like he thought that would prove… something. He asked me which AC/DC song Dad liked better, Back in Black or High Voltage. I told him no. I asked him what  _he_  liked better. I told him that it was  _his_  birthday present and giving it back to Dad would be like he never got anything at all. He looked at me then, like I'd just reminded him that he was worth something. Sometimes… when I've messed up, when I let him down, I remember that look and I think that I did something right."

Sam sniffed and lifted one hand off the wheel to dab at his eyes with his sleeve.

"After that he picked Zeppelin. Said he never got tired of it, no matter how many times Dad turned the tapes over. One time he took me to a record shop and wrote out the title of every single Zepp song they had and how long each one was. He worked out how many he'd be able to put onto a tape. It took him  _forever_  to pick his favourites and the order he wanted them in, by the time he got around to actually recording, we were both sick of hearing him talk about it. I actually, uh, you know that skip of static in Kashmir? Yeah, that was my fault, I, uh, I was telling him about something that had happened at school and he wasn't listening, so I pushed him and it jolted the tape. Man, he was so mad."

Sam broke off with a wistful grin.

"When it was finally done he was  _so_  proud. We were in a crappy motel in Omaha and he was buzzing for Dad to get back. As soon as the car pulled up, Dean was out the door and tugged me with him, he got in the passenger seat and shoved in the tape before Dad had even put her in park. He made us sit there and listen to it, twelve songs, and then he ejected the tape and took it back. He wouldn't let Dad put it in the box with the others, he kept it with his own stuff. He never did tell us what the last song was."

"The Rain Song." Castiel said quietly, swallowing hard.

Sam's eyebrows flicked upwards, then he nodded.

"Makes sense." He said, glancing over at Castiel with a look of deep fondness. "I'm glad he found someone to share that with."

"I never-" Castiel began haltingly, it felt like a cold lump of metal had just dropped into his stomach. "I used that tape to betray his trust once. How could I do that? I knew it was important to him, I knew it meant something but I still-"

"Hey." Sam said gently, "We've all done crap. But Dean said once that when he- when he died, that it was a clean slate. No grudges, no resentments. He loved us, Cas, and that's what we've gotta hold on to. He loved us and we got to be loved by him. No matter what we did, or how we screwed up, or how much I hurt him, that was always true. So we can't be so bad, right?" His voice hitched at the end, like a plea, like he was asking Castiel to tell him that he wasn't so bad.

"Right." He said. Dean had cared for him, forgiven his mistakes, made a place for him in his home and in his heart. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't think Castiel was worth it. But one of the most beautiful and tragic things about Dean was the way he loved people; fiercely, deeply, beyond reason or consequence, never even considering the fact that he might be loved in return, but hoping for it, desperately trying to earn it by being uncompromising in his loyalty.

"I should've told him more." He said.

"Me too."

"I should've told him how it was different."

Sam bobbed his head slowly, not judging, just considering. "Maybe."

Castiel looked out the window, the flat, grey-green landscape rolled past, unchanged, unaware of the fact that the most important fight in history had taken place just over twelve hours ago.

"You mind if I stop to grab some lunch?" Sam asked. "Could use some gas too."

"Of course."

Castiel stayed in the car while Sam paid for the gas and a cheap sandwich, leaving a body unattended in the backseat would not be smart, even if they didn't plan on sticking around long enough for anyone to get curious. He watched people walk in and out of the attached diner, the spotty cashier, the old truckers and the suit-clad businesspeople mingling in the way they only did in places like this; way-stops between classes, born of the need to refuel and the lack of anywhere else to do it.

Sam slid back into the driver's seat and passed him a thin plastic bag to shove down by his feet, tearing open the packaged sandwich with his teeth and eating it with one hand as he pulled back out onto the freeway. He was still pale, probably exhausted, and repressing the hell out of his grief until the time was right for him to feel it. Not the healthiest of coping mechanisms perhaps, but it was the Winchester standard.

"What are you gonna do now?" Castiel asked him, long after the sandwich was gone and the tape had fizzled into silence. "Michael's dead, Asmodeus is dead, Heaven's closed and Hell's a mess. What's next for you, Sam?"

Sam looked over at him and shrugged.

"Carry on, I guess." He said. "With no more archangels, I've got the cast of The Walking Dead back home and they're stuck here. I've gotta help them; either fix 'em up here or try to get 'em back if they want. We should probably look into the Heaven thing, figure out how to stabilise it so we don't end up in a freaking ghost apocalypse. Jack could use some proper human, hunter training, and there'll always be monsters, you know?"

"Is that what you want?" Castiel asked, surprised.

Sam sighed, eyes flicking to the rear-view for a moment.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, this life has mostly sucked ass. But I'm tired of running. That's what I always did before, when Dean died. I'd just pack up and run, either chasing normal or looking for a way to get him back. But that doesn't feel right this time, does it? Dean isn't all I've got anymore. I've got Mom now, and you and Jack and hell, even Bobby and Charlie, or at least versions of them. And Dean's dead, and nothing's okay right now, but this time I feel like, I don't know, like maybe it  _could_  be? Like… like maybe  _I_  could be? God, it sounds like I didn't love him at all."

"No." Castiel said quickly, "It's good. It sounds like you know what you want and how to get it."

"Don't get me wrong, I'd bring him back in a  _second_ -"

"-I know." Castiel laid a hand on Sam's arm. "He'd want you to be  _happy_ , Sam. That's all he ever wanted for you. Regardless, you deserve happiness on your own merit."

"I think…" Sam said, taking a breath, Castiel heard the way it shuddered in his lungs, "I think happiness might take a while."

Castiel patted Sam's arm before removing it.

"So what about you? Are you gonna stick around?"

"Yes." He said with a small frown. "I think Jack needs me. And I can help."

"Will it make you happy?"

Castiel pressed his lips together and shrugged. "Angels aren't supposed to be happy."

"You're not supposed to fall in love either." Sam said gently, "But you're a part of Team Free Will, so you get to choose. Don't stick around just because you think Dean would want you to. It's okay if you want something else."

He shook his head with a small smile. "You're my family too." He said, "You and Jack; Dean was never my only reason for staying." He hesitated a moment. "But it  _hurts_ , Sam. It hurts more than I ever thought it could."

"I know." Sam said. Castiel looked up at him to see his jaw twitch under his stubble, "It never gets easier." He continued, still staring at the road ahead and Castiel was struck by how many times Sam had had to deal with this grief, the six months Gabriel had wiped away, the four months in Hell, the year in Purgatory, the few hours before the Mark of Cain restored him. "You just get strong enough to carry it."

 

***

 

The sun was gently lowering itself behind the horizon when Sam spoke again. They'd been silent for hours, but Castiel had noticed an increasing urgency and a few huffs of breath that sounded like Sam had thought about speaking but changed his mind at the last second. He clearly had something that he wanted to say, and seeing as they were nearing the bunker he was running out of time to say it.

"So-" he began, voice immediately cracking, "I get it if you can't talk about it right now, but I've gotta ask… Did Dean - did he say anything? Did he get a chance, once Michael was gone, I mean? Or did it happen too fast?"

Castiel's throat seized up at the question, at the desperation in Sam's voice, pleading for a glimpse of his brother's last moments, the ones he was probably beating himself up for for missing, despite the fact that Castiel had stolen the truck in the middle of the night after they had solidified the plan, leaving only a note saying that he couldn't risk putting Sam and Mary in danger too, that he would come home with Dean or not at all, and if it was the second, it would be wise to abandon Kansas.

"So he  _did_  say something." Sam said, interpreting whatever stricken expression was on his face.

He should say no, he should say that there had been no time, that Dean had died when Michael did, but Sam looked so  _hopeful_. He had been with Dean through it all but Castiel had stolen Sam's chance to be there at the end. It wasn't right that he had taken that, Sam deserved more than a mumbled apology that it had been quick.

"He said it was about time that he retired."

The lie rolled off his tongue easily with enough pain in his tone to make it believable. He hated himself for it, the revulsion coated his tongue acidic, but the small huff of a laugh that he got from Sam, the  _relief_  in his face was more than worth it. Sam didn't need to know that Dean had barely known where he was, that the bravest man they both knew had died afraid. Not that Castiel thought that Sam would think any less of his brother but he knew Dean wouldn't want him to tell. Dean was strong, stronger than even he knew, and Castiel would not have him remembered as otherwise.

"Yeah." Sam said slowly, "Sounds about right. I wonder if his Heaven's that beach he was talking about; us three, stupid matching shirts and rainbow cocktails."

"That sounds nice." Castiel said, entertaining the idea for a moment but not believing it to be true. Heaven was memories, not dreams. Besides, Dean wouldn't be satisfied with any pretend version of them. Sam shook his head, apparently he didn't believe it either.

"Put the tape on again." He said. "It should take us till we're home."

 

***

 

Mary and Jack stood waiting for them outside the bunker. Either Sam had texted them with an ETA or they had been waiting on their best guess and probably been stood there for hours. The impala eased to a stop in front of them and when Sam turned the engine off and removed the keys, the car let out a series of mournful creaks as it settled. Sam patted the dash before getting out, the tension that had eased slightly during their long car ride was back in full force. Castiel watched the way he braced himself, shoulders rigid, as he opened the door and unfolded himself from the front seat. Castiel felt it too. Having the time alone to process, then the time with Sam to grieve had been a slow easing in to the pain that they faced. But there were other people that loved Dean too, and they would be looking to him and Sam for guidance, Sam especially. Castiel did not envy the mantle he carried and hoped he would be able to help bear it. He got out too, the cool air on his face was pleasant, as was the smell of recent rainfall on earth, though it didn't have the same lingering charge in the air that the barn had had; just an ordinary change in weather then. He hesitated after closing the car door behind him, unable to look the others in the eye as Sam carefully pulled Dean's body from the backseat, face still covered with the trenchcoat. Mary strode forward immediately and yanked it off, letting the fabric fall to pool on the ground, her eyes fixed on her eldest son. Castiel saw her throat bob as she swallowed and heard Jack's sharp gasp. Mary's eyes were ringed with shadow, underlining her pain. Her jaw clenched in a way that was so reminiscent of Dean that it panged in his chest. Her fingers hovered over the rip in his shirt where the blade had gone in, clear of blood now but no less telling. After a few moments she stepped back.

"We should change his clothes." She announced. "He looks ridiculous."

"I'll pick out some things." Sam muttered.

Mary nodded and her lip trembled. Sam looked as though he wanted to hug her but settled for dropping a kiss to the top of her head. Mary patted his cheek and gestured him inside, but she stepped in front of Castiel when he made to follow, folding her arms across her chest, steel in her eyes.

"No." She said coldly. "You're not welcome here."

"Mary-" He began, but she cut him off.

"The only reason I haven't killed you," she said, her voice tight, "is because my boys care about you and they have lost enough today."

"Mary." Jack said, placing a hand on her shoulder, which she promptly shook off. "It's not his fault. He did what he could. You did, right Castiel?"

Jack looked at him then, wide eyes pleading. Castiel nodded miserably.

"I tried."

"You killed him."

"I-" He started, but he had no defence, no justification that could make this right. "Yes."

"And you can't bring him back." The statement was almost a question, the tiniest spark of hope tacked on to the end.

"I can't."

"Then exactly what good are you?"

Castiel had no answer to that.

"He's family." Jack said firmly. "Dean would want him here."

Mary looked over at the boy for a few moments before relenting. Her shoulders slumped and she turned to the bunker door, vanishing inside without another word.

"She's angry." Jack said quietly. "She's been angry since you called. I think she was already mad that you left without her and Sam."

"She's hurting." Castiel said, picking up his coat from the ground and brushing it free of small flakes of gravel. "And she has every right to be mad. I killed her son."

"But you saved the rest of us." Jack said, a crease forming between his eyes. "Shouldn't she forgive you?"

Castiel sighed. "I can't expect that of her. Were our situations reversed, I'm not sure I could forgive her either."

Jack pursed his lips at that but said nothing more as they went inside.

It was a sombre group that awaited them; more faces than Castiel had expected. There were the survivors of Apocalypse World, of course, and Rowena and Charlie had apparently been called back. But Garth had clearly just flown in and was staring transfixed at where Jody was talking to Bobby, twisting the beat-up trucker cap in his hands. Jody herself had a strange mix of pained anticipation and pleased confusion on her face at meeting a new version of her old friend. Castiel felt a rush of affection when he saw Claire's shock of blonde hair, braided down one side of her head. Her eyes were red and swollen and she ran to him as soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs, arms slipping around his waist, hugging him tightly. Castiel returned the hug, resting his chin on her head briefly before she pulled back and punched him hard on the arm. She didn't smile, nor did she cry, she just gave him a nod like she understood and stepped back to stand in between Patience and Alex. Castiel nodded back solemnly, avoiding the eyes of everyone else who had gathered to mourn for Dean Winchester; people he had saved, people he had cared for, people who had seen the spark of light he had so often tried to smother with crass jokes and feigned ignorance. It was too much, so much grief in one room; so much love with nowhere to go, bottled inside each individual soul, all meant for Dean.

 _This is what Dean died for_. Castiel thought, watching as Charlie and Alex gravitated together, as Patience stuck to Claire like glue as she moved through the room, mingling with some of the people from Apocalypse World, as Garth approached Rowena timidly where she sat alone, her porcelain skin paler than usual.

 _No,_ he realised suddenly,  _that's not right. This is what Dean_ lived _for_. The distinction seemed small, but it felt huge, important in a way that he couldn't really define. He stood there, overlooking the people Dean had helped bring together, the family he had helped forge, and he felt pride swell within him.

When Mary and Sam re-entered, Sam was still carrying Dean's body, though it was now wearing a pink and blue checked flannel and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt that had been washed so often it had faded to a soft brown. He looked more like himself and Castiel was grateful for it. The room fell silent, the warm chatter dispersing in the air like fireflies at dawn. Every eye in the bunker was drawn to Dean's still face. Castiel heard over a dozen heartbeats spike, and the grief was so palpable he could taste the bitter tang of it.

"We need to build a pyre." Sam said, his voice was hoarse and too-loud in the still war room. Several of the crowd exchanged looks, then Garth stepped forward, cutting off Bobby, who had just opened his mouth.

"It's already done." He said in his smooth drawl. "We did have twenty hours to kill, ya know, an' you boys've got plenty o' wood around."

"I guess we do." Sam said after a slightly awkward pause. "Well then, I guess we should, um… go?"

He started off towards the stairs, then paused.

"Your boy said the views ya get from the hill round back are the best ones." Donna put in gently. "We figured that might be a good place."

Sam nodded his thanks and carried on, Mary close behind him, the others gathering to file out in a solemn procession. Castiel joined them, walking the familiar path around the side of the bunker to the hill where he had spent many an evening with Sam and Dean, lying on the dew-soaked grass, watching the stars. Castiel had tried to teach them the constellations and their origins a few times but Dean would always tell him to 'shut up with the nerd talk' and so he sometimes came back with just Sam, and more recently Jack as well, at Sam's request. Forever a scholar, that one. Very rarely, on nights where Dean had been plagued by nightmares or insomnia, Castiel would find him out here, hands tucked under his head, eyes reflecting the starlight. Dean didn't care about the wonders of the cosmos, Castiel had come to realise, he wasn't curious about the way certain planets aligned on certain days and what ancient civilisations used to believe that meant. He just liked to watch them, as though making sure they were still there; appreciating their beauty, reminding himself that there  _was_  beauty that he wasn't responsible for.

They gathered around the wooden structure; someone had draped a white cloth over the top, a tank of gas sat innocuously next to it, but it drew eyes like bees to pollen. Sam laid Dean on the shroud and wrapped it around him. They could have done this part separately, wrapping the body was usually a private ritual, but Castiel supposed this way felt right. Everyone had needed to see the body, considering the amount of times the Winchesters came back from the dead, it must be hard to grieve properly without the evidence of your own eyes.

Sam stepped back and made to grab the gas but, propelled by the pull of something strong and painful, Castiel stepped out from the crowd and walked towards the pyre. Mary looked like she wanted to intervene but Bobby put a hand on her arm and she conceded, watching along with the rest as Castiel folded the trenchcoat in his hands into a soft cushion and placed it on the pyre next to Dean's covered left hand. He rested his hand on it briefly before drawing back and looking to Sam.

"He can hold on to it for me."

He knew it didn't work that way, knew that his coat would just burn to ash and nothing more would happen, but he knew he couldn't wear it anymore. As much as his coat had become a part of his identity, it was the part that emphasised his separation from humanity and he no longer felt separated. He had fallen in love and lost it, and that was possibly the most human thing that there was.

Sam looked at him strangely but didn't ask questions, picking up the can of gas and splashing it heavy over the pyre. The sharp, heady stench seemed to bore directly into his brain and when Mary tossed her lighter onto the wood, the resulting surge of flame was hot enough to make most of the others step back. Castiel stood his ground, the heat pawing at his face, his eyes fixed on the white shroud in the centre of the pyre, already beginning to char. He swallowed hard and the thought that he would never see those green eyes again hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. Sam might share a heaven with him when he died, but Castiel would go to the Empty. The horror of eternity stretched open in front of him, countless days without Dean, and soon, much sooner than he would like, without Sam and Jack too. Years would pass, all the humans around him now would age and fade with time until all Castiel had were memories.

 _Everything ends._  Naomi had told him.

Castiel heard the words in his mind and dismissed them. No. Love didn't end. His love for Dean wasn't dimmed by his death, he doubted it would be dimmed by his own. Perhaps one day, when there was no one left to tether him here, he could remove his grace and let himself age and die as a human. Perhaps he would go to Heaven, perhaps he would see Dean again.

 

***

 

It was nearing midnight by the time the first people began to trickle away from the still-burning pyre. The Apocalypse World survivors probably, though Castiel didn't turn to check. After all, they had barely known Dean, he had been a saviour to them, a figure to respect and follow, but not family, not truly. They'd never seen him comfort a scared child, never heard him laugh until his stomach cramped, or watched him dance while he cooked. They couldn't know, couldn't possibly comprehend the value of the man the world had just lost.

Bobby and Charlie left next, Castiel heard their whispered condolences as they passed by Sam and Mary on their way down, aware that Dean had had a much stronger connection to them than they had been able to return. Then Rowena loudly proclaimed 'the whole ordeal too tragic for words' in a tone of over-the-top sarcasm that precisely no one was fooled by. Garth lasted another quarter of an hour before admitting defeat, heading back inside, sniffling quietly into a handkerchief. Jody shepherded her troupe back to the bunker soon after and Claire brushed by Castiel as she passed for a moment of contact. Mary went with them, apparently unable to watch any longer, leaving only Sam, Castiel and Jack. Team Free Will 2.0. Tears were dripping from Sam's chin, Jack stared into the fire like it would explain the phenomena of grief to him and Castiel glanced over at them, knowing that they were all he had left, knowing that he had killed Dean to save them, and unable to truly regret it, which was not the comfort that he thought it should have been.

Jack hugged them both and spared one last, long look at the pyre before heading back inside. Castiel though that perhaps he should go too, let Sam have the last few moments alone with his brother, just the two of them, as it had always been. But the thought of going back inside felt wrong, he couldn't leave Dean, he'd promised, even as the guilt of depriving Sam of that time chewed at his insides.

"We did this for you too, you know." Sam said eventually, "And Dean had that exact same look on his face."

"Grief?"

"Like he was lost." Sam smiled sadly across at him. "I know it probably doesn't help but he loved you. The same way you loved him. He was just scared that it would change everything."

"He told you that?"

Sam let out a bark of laughter, "Hell no. But I knew him well enough."

Castiel swallowed, nodding. Sam was right, it didn't help. He'd known on some level, or at least suspected that Dean returned his feelings, not that it mattered, it wasn't like that knowledge changed anything. It didn't make what he'd done hurt any less, it didn't make Dean any less dead.

"I know it probably doesn't help," Castiel said in return, "but he was thinking of you at the end. I think that's what gave him the strength to hold Michael back, just for a moment, less than a second of hesitation but so much more than anyone else could have managed."

"Always a stubborn son of a bitch." Sam said with a half-smile. "Can't even say I'm surprised."

They watched the fire for a few more moments, then, "I'm used to always looking to him for the answers, even though I knew most of the time he didn't know any better than I did, but now, everyone's looking to me, and I don't have any answers and all I can think about is how  _hard_  I must've made things for him. Half the time I'd be fighting for him not to treat me like a kid, but the other half, I'd expect him to take charge, to figure things out and make the tough call, and he always did because I needed him to. He was my big brother and I never figured out how to step up."

"And yet you have." Castiel pointed out. The pyre was almost completely burned away now, carried up on the wind and smoke, blotting out the moon, "These past few months you've taken charge, you've come up with plans, tried your best to keep everyone safe. Dean gave you the tools, Sam, and he taught you how to use them. And your decisions might not have been the same ones that he would have made, but they were yours, and they were motivated by your drive to help, and Dean would be so proud of you."

Several more tears leaked from Sam's eyes. He wiped them on his sleeve.

"I miss him."

Castiel's heart broke at the simple confession. For all Sam's thirty-six hard years he sounded so young, like the child Dean had never really been able to look past, the little brother he had tried so hard to protect. Castiel placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, wishing that he could do more than share Sam's pain.

"Me too." He felt the words sear into his bones, burning him from the inside out. They were just too big to comprehend. Missing Dean, he would spend the rest of his eternity missing Dean.

There was a pause then as the fire began to crackle out, leaving behind only ash.

"I guess everything's gonna change now, isn't it?" Sam said plaintively, finally tearing his eyes from the remains of the pyre to look at the angel.

"Yes." Castiel said simply, because it was true, and because if he understood one thing, it was change.

 

_The gold bonds break but your story is done;  
Lay your head to rest, my wayward son._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think?  
> All feedback is loved and fed three times a day.
> 
> If you'd like to get in touch, feel free to find me on [my tumblr](https://tibbinswrites.tumblr.com/). I always love to hear from you.  
> Love Tibbins xx


End file.
